


Everything is Negotiable (Except Your Loyalty?)

by LordJixis



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anxiety, BAMF!Grantaire, F/F, Kidnapping, M/M, Small!Enjolras, holy shit I forgot to add any tags first go-round here we go, implied trans marius, my enjolras is always trans but it doesn't mention anything about that, referenced anxiety medication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 05:46:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17177051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LordJixis/pseuds/LordJixis
Summary: Being kidnapped is horrible.Being kidnapped by R is... less horrible.





	Everything is Negotiable (Except Your Loyalty?)

**Author's Note:**

> Uhh there's detailed trigger warnings in the end note i don't think it's anything crazy but keep yourself safe! Also i tried to post this and it... didn't.... so this is the second go round? We'll see how it do

The drugs in Enjolras' food are painstakingly measured for his exact size – painstakingly, because the man is  _small_ , and any microgram over the limit could very well kill him. These are not get-fucked-up-with-your-buddies drugs.

But REPO is the best, and there's a reason they're the best, and it centers on their ability to avoid rookie mistakes – or at least, to cover up their rookie mistakes with a lot of firepower.

Which isn't quite an option here, hence the careful dosing.

Enjolras eats about three-quarters of his salad, like he always does – but all the tomatoes, like he always does (creatures of habit are the easiest to capture). He gives Courfeyrac the rest, and makes a circuit around the room, saying goodbye to each and every member of his club. This isn't unusual; it's expected. It's who Enjolras is. Combeferre stops him on his way out the door, wanting to discuss something that would matter very little to him very soon, but they'd used the slow-release version for this exact reason. More time is almost never an issue. Less time almost always is.

Enjolras doesn't think anything is wrong until his legs don't quite move right, only a block from the Musain. He stumbles, just a little, and then he's unconscious.

It doesn't hurt at all.

He doesn't even hit the ground.

 

* * *

 

The realization he's awake is slow. It starts with a dull ache in his arms and a question, muffled even in his own brain –  _why is it so dark_? Even then, he doesn't realize anything is amiss until he tries to move his arm, relieve some of the pressure – and it won't budge.

That wakes him up quickly, but he still can't see a single thing. It's dark, too dark, and his brain must not be working right because he's definitely blindfolded,  _how had he not noticed that he was blindfolded._

His legs are tied, his arms are tied, and he's suddenly hyperventilating – it's probably _the worst_ day of his life. And he's had a lot of bad days.

Time slows and stretches, and he doesn't know how long he's been panicking, writhing, trying his hardest to kick out at something, feel something besides the hard floor – and then there's a clang and a thump, and a woman's voice, loud enough to startle him even through the haze of  _ohgodohgodohgod._

“He's awake.”

“You sure? Would've thought he'd start screaming.” Another woman's voice, rough and low.

“I don't think he can get enough air to try.”

Actually, he hadn't thought of it. But now that the idea is there, he throws himself into it, pitching his voice as high as he can and trying to convey 'help me' with every fiber of his being.

“Fuck!” And that's a man's voice, which means there's at least three people against him, and this is  _so fucked_. “What the fuck, make him stop!”

Someone obeys him, because cloth is shoved in his mouth and tied behind his neck and he can't do anything but make muffled whines against it. They sound pitiful even to his own ears.

He resumes his thrashing, fast breaths choked off from the obstruction in his mouth, until he's so tired he can only curl up and try desperately not to cry.

It doesn't work. He's sobbing in moments, ugly ones that are only quiet because of the gag.

The thing is, he'd been told this would happen – he'd always made himself visible, their organization was starting to gain traction, and it was a dangerous thing to be a figurehead. Combeferre had tried to push self-defense classes on him but he'd never had the time, and he'd gotten offended every time someone had tried to walk him home, and now he was going to die without ever saying goodbye to his best friends.

“You'd think he'd be a pretty crier, with all the doe-eyed, pouty shit he has going on.” The rough-voiced women says, and he would choke out a fuck you if he wasn't fucking gagged.

He can't do that though – or much of anything. But he does try to cry as loudly and grossly as he possibly can, even when the phlegm started to choke him.

“That's enough of that, prince.”

He has just enough time to feel rage at the nickname, pride that he'd been able to get under at least one of his captor's skins, and a shock of fear at the pinch in his neck before he's out again.

 

* * *

 

“I told you it would work!” The deep voice brings him up from unconsciousness fast. It's a nice voice, and he enjoys it rumbling through him for the seconds it takes to remember where he is.

After that, it's a real effort to not start crying again.

“It really couldn't have. What if he'd woken up?” It takes Enjolras a moment to understand that 'he' is him, and that maybe if he'd woken up just a bit earlier he'd be out of this mess. It's even more of a struggle to keep from crying.

“Then we'd say we had a fucking cat in our luggage and shoot them if they didn't believe us. Easy-peasy.” The man sounds entirely unconcerned with shooting people, and Enjolras tenses without meaning to.

“You can't just shoot everything that gets in your way.”

“What the fuck have we been doing, then?”

“Drugging anything that gets in our way? Bribing anything that gets in our way? Drinking till we forget anything got in our way at all?” Enjolras thinks she must be a smoker, with how rough her voice has stayed through all this.

“Ah, my dear. I like the way you think, though shooting still seems to be the most straight-forward solution.”

“You're only saying that because you're drunk.”

“Does that matter, when I'm always drunk?”

Enjolras shifts, trying to relieve some of the pressure on his arms, and the conversation stops. “Well, it looks like pretty boy is up.” Heavy footfalls come towards him, and when the woman speaks again, it's in a very low tone. “If you scream, I will shove the gag back in your mouth so fast you'll puke, and I'll leave it in there and laugh while you choke. Got it?”

Enjolras has never been threatened like that before. He doesn't even know how to respond. Which is apparently the wrong answer, because his head is yanked back by his hair and he can't do anything because his arms are still tied and she's growling, “Got it?”

He whimpers out something that's pathetic enough for her, because she releases him.

“I don't know if I'll ever tire of seeing you terrify our poor guests.” The man still sounds jovial.

“If you talk like that, he'll stop taking me seriously.”

“I have doubts about that. He looked like he was going to piss his pants.”

“Uh.” Enjolras interrupts, despite his better judgment. “I really do need to pee.”

Silence descends.

“We got a suite for a reason.”

“But he could crawl out the air vent or something.”

“Which is exactly why you're going with him.”

“What?” The man sounds terribly affronted at this. “Why me?” If Enjolras hadn't been kidnapped by these people, he'd think the whining pitiful. As it is, he's whimpering on the floor about to literally piss his pants. It is not a position to throw stones from.

“You're both dudes?”

“That's not a good reason, and you know it.” There's a long pause, the kind that holds conversations made of looks and gestures. He'd rip the blindfold off and throw it at them, were he capable. “You guys really can't be serious about this.” Another, shorter pause. “It won't work. And if it does, it will be even worse.”

“You have a strange definition of worse.”

“And you have a strange definition on what our job exactly is.” More silence. “Fine!” Heavy footsteps pound to him. He tries not to tense, but it's hard when the cloth over his eyes rips away. The light is blinding after so long in darkness, and he blearily focuses on the face above him.

He only gets a moment to catalog stubble growing on dark skin, bright eyes and a quirked mouth before he's being pulled upright. Caught off guard, he stumbles, tips into the precarious weightlessness that means he'll fall, but hands on his shoulders right him easily. “Careful there, Your Majesty. Can't have you getting any bruises.” The nickname provokes a glare, but he's so disoriented he doubts it hits it's mark. He stills when he pulls out a knife. His eyes (and they are  _ridiculous_  eyes, really) roll back as he cuts the ropes around Enjolras' wrists. 

The bathroom is only a few steps away. Once inside, the other man flicks on the lights and pointedly looks away. “I suppose asking for privacy would be a waste of time?” He tries.

“You'd suppose right.” The answer is spoken at the wall.

His reflection stares back at him. He looks as scared as he feels – it's a miracle he can form coherent sentences. “What do you guys want from me?” He tries.

“Go to the bathroom, O' fearless one.” His voice is tired; slurred. The drunk is probably going to be the easiest to get answers from.

“Will you tell me after?” Silence is his only response. The man sways in his peripheral. He really does need to pee, so he gets to work on that, and when his nerves prove to be too much, “And what's with all the nicknames?”

A shrug. “Keeps you less than human.”

Enjolras frowns. Washes his hands. “But I am human.”

When the tap shuts off, those bright eyes meet his. “No,” A breath, long. Eye contact is brutal. He holds it anyway. “You're an objective.”

* * *

 

They bring him food, though the women watch with careful eyes while he eats. “Do you think I'll find a way to kill myself with it?” He inquires after a few tasteless bites.

They look at each other and shrug. “You could try.” The blonde one smiles a bit when she speaks. Her voice is sweeter than the harsh rasp of the other's.

“Wouldn't blame you.” The other one adds.

His jaw stops working. He forces himself to swallow before saying, tentatively, “Where am I going?”

They exchange a look. It is not a pleasant one.

“We aren't at liberty to say.” The blond sounds regretful, at least.

“You just don't want the guilt.” He sounds bitter, but neither of them refute it.

* * *

 

The man is drunk when he takes over watch, as always. “What's your name?” Enjolras asks, when the silence is as suffocating as the gag ever had been.

“You can't honestly believe I'd tell you.” He doesn't look up from the notebook he's writing in.

“I just need something to call you. Instead of 'the man'.”

That makes him look up. “You don't want that.”

“How would you know?” He challenges.

“It would make me human.” He shrugs and takes a long drink of wine – red. It stains his mouth.

Enjolras watches the column of his throat. “But you are human.”

That earns him a long, measuring look.

* * *

 

He's idly paging through a book. It's become obvious they're on a ship, and judging by the way his captors talk, there are at least two weeks before they were getting off. It feels like a cliche -- like a main character, stuck in an hourglass. Two weeks till he chokes on sand. Two weeks till he goes somewhere killing himself to avoid is not only acceptable, it's expected.

He pokes around as much as he can, when there's always someone watching him – basically, not much. Even less so after the rough-voiced girl gets a phone call and lazily leans over to inform him that there are agents ready to take both Combeferre and Courfeyrac's lives should he run.

When he was little, his parents would drag him to amusement parks far more often than he wanted to attend them. He didn't like rollercoasters, hated the way he felt weightless and out of control. To cope, he'd slumped in his seat, forced his mind elsewhere, and let the G-force pull his body this way and that while pretending fiercely that he was anywhere else.

This was like that in a great many ways.

So it takes a minute for the voice to register. “The Social Contract? Really?”

He looks from the book up at the man. Takes a moment to ascertain that yes, he's being talked to. “It's a load of shit.” He states.

The other man's eyes light up. His mouth is curled; when he talks it's obvious he's as close to sober as he ever gets. “And which part of this book, which strings together the ideals of many renowned philosophers, offends you so?”

“Well, first – the 'renowned philosophers' were a bunch of old straight white men, intent on keeping the status quo that had put them in their position of power to begin with.” His grin widens, turning positively catlike. His canines are longer than normal. Enjolras feels like Alice – thrown from his world with no notice, into somewhere where the rules had been replaced with riddles. “It throws the consent of the people to be ruled out the window, as not everyone could possibly agree to the terms it sets forth. The only reason we bend to these rules is because the threat of death or imprisonment is the price to be paid should you step out of line.”

“Wow, Your Loveliness.” He is every bit the Cheshire, tilted head, wild eyes. “Did you rehearse that?” Enjolras shakes his head. “Impressive. But wrong.” Enjolras draws back, just a little, and then he's launching into an argument with so many logical twists it feels something like a maze. “...As such, while anarchy is the only true form of freedom, it is also the worst state for humanity to reside in, which makes the Social Contract necessary. It is often misused, but it is also our only bid at equality; without the contract, those with a disadvantage – all the disabled, the minorities, the small and the naive, everyone you fight for in your quest for social justice – would be murdered or enslaved in a heartbeat.” He finishes off, making a grand flourish with his arms as if this was only the natural conclusion of two Greek references and a lengthy dissecting of V for Vendetta.

“But you're just deciding that humanity is inherently bad, that anarchy at this stage of intelligence would result in the strong eating the weak. Humans are good, at their heart. It's the cycle of poverty and class divisions fueled by the government that turn us against each other.”

He gets a slow blink in return. “You do realize you've been kidnapped and are being sold as a slave, yes?”

It hasn't been spelled out in quite those terms, but, “I had guessed.”

“And you're still going to argue that humans are inherently good?”

He tilts his chin up and doesn't break eye contact. “Of course.”

There's an audible whoosh as air leaves the man in front of him. “Right,” He begins, before diving back into his argument.

It's been hours by the time Enjolras' eyelids are drooping far too low to be ignored. They hadn't reached an agreement – on anything, at all – but when he's leaving, switching off watch with the blond girl, he says, “R. You can call me R.”

Enjolras smiles at him. “R.” He echoes back, and doesn't miss the look the blond gives them. He has no idea of the meaning, but he's certain it means  _something_.

* * *

 

It's a rare day, in that all three of his captors are in the room with him, drinking tea and discussing the practicalities of bribery vs. threats.

It probably isn't the right time to bring this up, but Enjolras doesn't really think there will be a 'right time'. Besides, he's starting to learn that these people are the most logical when they're all together. They balance each other surprisingly well.

“I need a shower.” He announces into the room, and gets three stares in return.

“No, you don't.” R sighs immediately.

“I can smell myself.” He scrunches his nose as a demonstration, which earns him a snort.

“Are we just not going to let him shower this whole time?” It's directed at R, who looks like he hasn't even considered that option but is completely open to it.

“You know, he  _is_  supposed to arrive in good condition.” The other women adds. She puts air quotes around 'good condition' and Enjolras doesn't quite know what to make of that.

“Let him shower the night before, then. It's not like he has to make the journey in 'good condition'.” Enjolras tries not to bristle at the talk of his 'condition'. By the look the rough-voiced women shoots him, it's unsuccessful.

“C'mon, R.” She sighs, flips her hair back. “We're not cruel; he's not going to escape soapy and naked.”

“But you're still going to force me in there as a watch.” R sounds resigned, which Enjolras knows means he won.

“Yep!” The women chorus, before looking at each other with the fantastically gooey expression they adopt sometimes.

“This is just to get me out of the way, isn't it?” R moans; when silence is his only answer he heaves out a pitiful groan. “Alright, Angel. Up we go.” Enjolras scowls at the nickname, but it's tempered by the promise of a shower.

He lets himself be herded into the bathroom, where R pointedly sits down looking at the door. “Don't get any funny ideas.” He murmurs – it sounds less like a threat and more like an obligation.

Still, the way he purrs 'funny ideas' does something to Enjolras' stomach that should be wholly uncomfortable, yet somehow isn't. He pauses in front of the shower, tugging halfheartedly at the hem of his shirt.

R speaks up to combat the continued silence, “I'm not a kidnapper  _and_  a pervert, I won't defile your body with my gaze.”

Enjolras can feel himself flush, a bright pink that overtakes his complexion from his hairline all the way down his chest. He's more glad that R can't see that than his naked body, which was a feeling he's not going to look too closely at. In retaliation, he pulls off his shirt and flings it on the floor, hard enough to make a 'whump'. R chuckles, which does nothing to help the blushing situation.

He's halfway through the shower when, “Hey, can you bring me some clothes?” startles him. He hadn't particularly forgotten that R was there, but the rumbling voice is still unexpected, enough so that he jumps and bangs into the shower wall. “Sorry, Sunshine.” R doesn't sound sorry at all. “I'm just doing you the service of clean clothes; I think you'll find it in yourself to forgive me.” He huffs and grumbles more than the situation warrants, and takes his time washing his hair, a task that already takes ten minutes.

It hadn't even been a transgression that requires forgiveness but the relief of sliding into clean cotton would've smoothed it over anyway. Even if said cotton was wildly too big.

The sleeves cover his palms and the pants drag along the floor, even when he folds the waistband over. He attempts his most dignified look when R sees him, but it melts in the face of his giggles. He sighs and accepts that he would be laughed at for the sake of cleanliness. “These are your clothes, aren't they?” He tries to sound accusatory, and only gets more laughter in return.

He doesn't really mind. They smell like paint and smoke, and the fabric is soft against his skin.

* * *

 

The debates only increase in frequency; mostly due to Enjolras seeking them out. It's a welcome distraction from whatever fate awaits him once they leave this boat, and R is  _good_. He's well-read, funny, and when he's truly entranced with what Enjolras is saying, he'll bite his lip just so. (those canines should really be illegal, pearly white against the plum of his lip, a bright spot in his dark complexion, captivating and dangerous.)

He's wandering over to where R sits, finger marking a passage he just needs the other man to read, when he first catches a glimpse of the notebook he's always writing in. “Oh – wow.” it's an involuntary reaction, prompted both by the immediate realization that he hasn't been writing at all, and the sheer talent visible in the art that instead fills the pages.

R spins around immediately, slamming it closed. This is not a good start to whatever argument Enjolras had been hoping to provoke. He glares at Enjolras, almost daring him to say something; with the challenge visible in every line of his body, Enjolras can't just let it go. “Why aren't you an artist?”

“What?” The sharpness to it betrays that R wasn't expecting that.

“You're good enough. You could sell art instead of... Whatever this is.” A moment of stillness passes. “I can tell you don't want to do this. You enjoy arguing with me. You never bring up where we're going, never make me feel like a prisoner, never hold your power over me. You aren't reveling in this. You're half-drunk all the time just to forget about it.” He takes a deep breath. This may, after all, be the most important speech of his life. It may be the one to ensure he  _has_  a life. “But you're always drawing, and you always smile when you do it. And you're  _good_. Why wouldn't you do what makes you happy?”

He's never noticed how much taller Grantaire is until he's standing too close – looming, more like. His face is hard. Enjolras has a brief moment to regret before he's speaking. “You think your little speeches can get you out of everything, don't you?” He steps forward, and despite considerable effort, Enjolras steps back. “It won't, this time.” He doesn't sound triumphant. He doesn't sound like much of anything. “You have no idea what the price on your head is, do you?” He continues, still advancing. Enjolras knows in a moment he'll hit the wall, and it will be game over. “It's enough to send all of Po's siblings to university – for their phD's. It's enough for their boyfriend to have all the surgeries he needs, and all the time off for recovery. It's enough for us all to retire, and never have to do this again. You might be right, that I don't want to do this – but the ends justify the means, Sweetheart. I have nothing against you. Your cause is noble, and you're beautiful and compelling in your conviction – but you won't change my mind.” His teeth are bared in a snarl. He looks feral. Wolf-like. The canines aren't so enticing anymore.

Enjolras' back hits the wall.

“I tried to sell paintings, before.” He's far too close. Enjolras realizes he's never been properly afraid of him before, not the way he should've been, not the way you're supposed to be of your kidnappers. “It didn't work.” He can read all the signs – he knows he's about to be punched. The tense line of shoulders, the scowling face, it's hard to mistake.

He ducks and waits.

It doesn't come.

Instead, there's a shout of frustration and feet stomping away from him. The door slams.

He's alone for all of thirty seconds – thirty seconds he should've used to look for a weapon, a way out, anything – but instead he slides down the wall and tries not to cry.

The blond comes in and stares for just a moment before her face slides into a sweet smile. “You don't know it.” She starts, walking carefully forward, “But that went well.” She helps him up and gives him a blanket. “Don't be afraid to keep pushing,” She lowers her voice, eyes sparkling. “He likes to posture, but he couldn't hurt you if he wanted to. And he doesn't want to.”

He looks at her. “I thought you were on his side.”

She tilts her head in a way that suggests a shrug. “I am.”

“If this – if me... If I could really help so many people, it would be selfish to not.”

Her gaze flickers to the door, and Enjolras realizes he'd never quite heard the stomps fade away. “There are a million ways to make money.” Her voice isn't quiet in the slightest. “We'll make do. We always have before.”

* * *

 

“Don't get your hopes up, hon.” It's the rough-voiced women, the one he's heard referred to as Po. She's not looking at him, gaze fixed in the mirror in her hand, but there's no one else she could be talking to. “I know you got the bleeding heart talk, but she thinks we can save everyone.” Her sea foam eyes meet his. “That's not how you run a business. You're just more merchandise.”

Of all of them, she seems the most down-to-earth.

She says not to get his hopes up.

So he doesn't.

* * *

 

Two days later, R comes back. It's longer than he's been away since the whole thing started; Enjolras hasn't known whether to be pleased or upset. Both, probably.

He comes with a whole cake – lemon, Enjolras' favorite – and offers it like one would an olive branch. He doesn't say he's sorry, and Enjolras doesn't get his hopes up, but the blonde ladies' words echo in his head. “Would you like any books, Angel?” R's tone is flippant, but it's hiding something. “With how you read, I'm sure you've gone through all these ones already.” Enjolras has, and he  _would_  like more – but it's the least of his worries, at the moment.

His voice doesn't shake. “I'm human, and you know it.” He waits till R meets his eyes, looking more kicked-puppy than wolf. “I understand that you need to do this, that it's an obligation to people depending on you.” He flinches at the word 'need', but Enjolras doesn't hope. He doesn't. “And I won't try to get you to free me. But don't deprive me of humanity. My name is Enjolras, and I ask that you call me that.”

R slumps, a puppet with it's strings cut. “Enjolras.” He says to the ground. The slump is over as soon as it started, and R is looking at him with something very close to resignation. “Enjolras, would you care for any books?”

The blond smiles the next time she comes in. He doesn't read into it.

* * *

 

R almost always winces when he says his name, and Enjolras doesn't feel the vicious triumph or careful compassion he thought he would. He just feels sick, because R is a good person – he knows this, from the arguments that have never quite returned to the previous air of lightheartedness, the gentle way he guides Enjolras through their daily routine and the conversational circles he dances around the exact nature of their relationship – and R needs to forget he's human, forget he's Enjolras, to justify what's going to happen at the end of this trip.

R says his name like it pains him, like it drops scalding hot from his lips every time he forms the words.

Yet he says it anyway – he never even tries to use nicknames, forces himself into proper nouns when a simple 'he' would've worked.

So Enjolras is used to that fact by the time he wakes up screaming, half-remembered visions of cells and restraints and too many teeth chasing him into the waking world. The first thing he focuses on is R, crouched in front of his bed with eyes so wide and arms so open, hovering midair, and he flings himself into them because R is a friend more than a captor at this point and he is just so, so scared. “R.” He sobs and R winces, the same pained face.

He still tucks Enjolras against him. Still murmurs sweet nothings; still pets his hair down and wipes his tears. He smells nice, and he's warm, and it's the best Enjolras has felt in at least a week.

His sobs give way to shudders; shudders give way to an exhausted stillness. When he's breathing regularly, R gently moves him back to the bed and attempts to lay him on it. Almost involuntarily, he clings tighter. “Don't leave.”

He doesn't.

What he does do is grip tighter, nuzzle into Enjolras' hair, and whisper, “This can't be healthy.”

* * *

 

He has nightmares more often than he doesn't. R is always there, somehow; he tries not to think about clinging to him and whimpering about Combeferre and Courfeyrac and all the other beautiful people he never said goodbye to.

R, for his part, seems to be making good on a half remembered sentence from what feels like weeks ago. He's always drunk or asleep or some obnoxious combination of the two; Enjolras despairs for the state of his liver. Enjolras despairs about quite a lot of things.

It's a new feeling.

It's one that seems inexplicably matched one day, when he wakes up to a stilted conversation and tensions so high it feels dangerous to even attempt to diffuse it.

All three of them are in the room. Their postures are stiff, their faces match. Po is the first to notice he's awake, zeroing in on him with a laser focus. “This isn't done.” She's still looking at him, but he doesn't think he's the intended recipient of those words.

Then she storms out.

The woman he still hasn't got the name of looks at him, looks at R, and softens. “We're with you, no matter what.” Her gaze is focused entirely on R. The words hold weight.

She leaves, too.

“What's going on?” He can't just gloss over that, and he thinks R wouldn't want him to.

R scrubs a hand over his face. His eyes belie a sobriety Enjolras isn't expecting, despite the severity of the previous conversation. “We're almost there, sweethe – Enjolras.” He'd known that it was coming – they couldn't stay in the stillness of this ship forever. Still, his fingertips freeze where they'd been picking at a string. “We'll be moving to a train tomorrow and then it will only be two days.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

* * *

 

The dinner he's brought is so stupidly extravagant he wants to protest. Po slices him with a look that quells that urge quickly, so he digs in to duck and salmon with careful, practiced bites he's spent a whole eighteen years perfecting. Across from him, R seems more interested in the wine that came with the dinner. He pours a glass, then drinks out of the bottle before handing the glass to Enjolras.

His parents would throw a fit if they saw the way R wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, but Enjolras is just stuck staring at his lips, stained red.

Maybe it starts there, or maybe it starts with the second glass of wine he drinks (Because he's a lightweight, through and through) but he gets an idea in his head, and in true Enjolras fashion, he pursues it. Well, after a third glass, for courage.

Generally, he runs his ideas by Combeferre, but there's a distinct lack of him here, and with it, a distinct lack of 90% of Enjolras' impulse control.

He's unsure when, exactly, he crawls into R's lap – a long-limbed spider making a home in the V of his hips, snuggling down into a shirt that smells like smoke. It must've been recently, because R is spluttering and flailing and generally acting like this is completely unexpected. Enjolras presses into him, silently urging his arms to snake around his waist. Instead, a hand comes to rest on his shoulder, which, well... good enough.

“Uh.” R's breath is hot by his ear, and he rolls up into it. “What are you doing?”

“I want you to fuck me.” He purrs, and hopes it doesn't come out as a slur.

“You can't – you aren't going to seduce your way out of this.” R pushes him back, gently. “I didn't think you had it in you to try.” 

Their torsos are plastered against one another's. R is broad and strong, a solid wall “I know I won't 'seduce my way out of this'.” He shifts, just slightly, but R gasps. “I just want a bright memory.” He repeats the motion and R makes a noise that's not quite a whine. A tamed wolf, maybe. Enjolras wants to suck on those canines. “Can't you give me that?”

“You're drunk.”

“Mmm, I thought consent wasn't necessary, here.” R pushes him back like he's been stung, like Enjolras was the one with sharp canines and he'd bit.

“Of course consent is neces-”

“You kidnapped me. You're selling me. There's not an ounce of consent present.” R sounds like he's choking, and he very firmly pushes Enjolras out of his lap and on to the floor. “Heyyy...” He slurs, disoriented.

“You need to go to bed.”

“Rrrr....” He whines. “C'mon, I don't want my first time to be with whatever gross old man is paying big bucks for me.”

“Your first... Right, okay, you're going to bed.” He scoops Enjolras up easily, and damn was that hot. “And I never said that was what would happen.”

He huffs into R's neck. “Please.” R shifts him and he hums at the new position, curled up around him like a koala. “I'm not that naive.” He tips his head so he can nuzzle R's cheek. “I know what I look like. I know what people want from me.”

R coughs and turns his face away, but it just means Enjolras can stick his nose under his jaw, place a feather light kiss there. R gasps, and then Enjolras gasps because he's been dropped, but it's only fluffy sheets under him. “Right. Go to bed.”

He looks around in a daze. “I don't want to.” He musters up his best pout, and can see R melt. “Don't want... tomorrow.”

“Okay.” He sighs. “Okay, tell me about this club you made.”

He can feel himself grin, the same way he always does when he remembers the Friends of the ABC. “I made it with my best friends – they're so great, the greatest people I've ever known, I love them so much and – oh.” R's brushing his face, and it takes some bleary blinking to realize he's crying. “I'm sorry.”

“It's okay.” He brushes a strand of hair out of Enjolras' face, and he can't help but lean into the hand. “You're okay.”

He allows himself a pitiful sniffle. Just the one. “Am I?”

R cups his face, gentle. “You will be.” His thumb brushes the top of Enjolras' cheek.

He revels in the feeling. There's long minutes of silence, and despite his best efforts he can feel tiredness dragging at the edges of his limbs. “You won't leave?”

“No. I won't.”

“Pinky promise?” He'd hate himself for this, this childishness.

But Grantaire wraps his pinky around his, and smiles. It's enough. “Yeah. Pinky promise.”

And he stays.

* * *

“I am so sorry.”

“Please don't apologize. It's weird.”

R is packing things, quick, efficient. There's not much. It takes him minutes.

“I still... I was out of line. That was - “

“Stop.” R flashes him a look and it's nothing like the sweetness of last night. “Don't apologize to your kidnapper.” He turns and mutters, “You'll have me thinking you've got stockholm syndrome or something.”

It's... a thought. Not one he particularly likes. He's a bit thankful when a wad of cloth hits him in the face, forcing him to focus on... well, that. “Change, we can't have you wandering around in pajamas.”

Enjolras looks at the clothes, looks at R, and briefly considers changing right then and there. R arches an eyebrow like he can somehow read his mind, which is stupid and impossible and enough to make him hurry off to the bathroom.

It's not the clothes he was taken in, but these ones do fit, unlike R's clothes. They're also... nice. A button up and slacks, not expensive but not cheap; they do the only thing clothes need to do to look good – fit.

“Why do you have my measurements?” It shouldn't be the most disconcerting thing right now. Really. It's in no way pressing, but Enjolras knows what tailored clothes feel like and he just can't fathom why or how any of them figured out his shoulder width.

“You think we'd just hang around each other for a fortnight and I wouldn't know something so obvious?” R says. “You're really an amateur.”

“An amateur what?”

R blinks at him, slow. “Right. I packed up your stuff, don't try any funny business, we still have people watching your friends.”

“Like you need to remind me.” He huffs.

* * *

 

Getting on the train is stressful. It isn't even stressful for the obvious reasons, like, say, the kidnapping and being held hostage situation. There are just so many  _people_ , and they were all brushing up against him, and Po kept manhandling him wherever and he wishes that R was the one guiding him because she is not in the least bit sympathetic to all these  _fucking people touching him._

But R had disappeared, and so had the other woman, and he didn't dislike Po but he could feel anxiety clawing it's way up his throat and it was choking him and she didn't understand, didn't seem like she could.

Another guy shoves back into him and he's talking before he realizes it, “Look, I'm really not trying to make a scene or do anything but I have anxiety and don't have my meds and I can feel a panic attack coming on so could you please, please, please, get me away from all these  _people_?” By the end his voice is squeaky. By the end he's choking on every fucking gasping breath.

She looks at his face and immediately sets her mouth. “Oh, fuck.” Their train isn't boarding for another while, so there's no escape there – she leads him through the crowd and elbows every single person that gets too close. When it first happens, he has to glance back to make sure they weren't stabbed because they'd acted like it was just that painful.

There's an alcove that he couldn't even see from far away, but she'd obviously known it was there. He's shoved into it and she blocks him in and everyone else, out, and it's such a relief to not be bustled around that he doesn't even mind the cramped space.

He doesn't realize he's curled on the floor until he has to look up to see Po speaking. “Get your fucking ass to the hall between stations 6E and 6F you fuckwad, I can't believe you left me with him to get _drunk_ , why the fuck did you do that –“ She breaks off as the person on the other end – almost certainly R – speaks, and when she continues she sounds even more angry, somehow. “Yeah, well someone didn't do their fucking job right and didn't see he had anxiety, and now he's panicking because you fucking booked the rush hour train –  _why'd you book the fucking rush hour train?_ ” There's more, but he's stopped listening and is instead focusing on breathing.

And then focusing on R, who appears out of the crowd looking rather like the homeless people that'd been begging them for change on their way in. “Why the fuck didn't you see anything about anxiety medication?” Is how Po greets him, and if Enjolras felt like he could talk around the rock in his throat he would.

“I don't fucking know, it wasn't on his medical records.” He shoves past her and into the space she's made for Enjolras, but stops rather farther from him than he would like.

“Hi, angel – Enjolras, sorry.” He crouches down and makes eye contact, and god, those eyes. “What can I do to help?”

“I'm just glad you're here.” He hears himself say, which, gross. He's never usually this sappy, but he supposes if there was ever a time. Actually, scratch that, it wouldn't be in a busy train station with his kidnapper. Even if he'd grown rather fond of him. Stockholm syndrome. Or maybe a natural endpoint of spending so much damn time with someone that charismatic.

R's smile is sad and wide and he's holding out his arms before he even realizes. His smile gets even sadder, and then they're hugging and it feels like a last, desperate shout.

It's not, of course. This isn't the end.

But it sure feels that way as they curl their bodies around one another, as the crush of people beyond Po fades.

Then it's time for their train and they're boarding, boarding...

* * *

 

They have a private sleeper car. It's just like every other one Enjolras has ever seen, and it sits wrong in his chest. There's nothing special about this. It's just another train ride.

R spreads out like oil on the bed, all dark and silky. He tries very hard to pretend he isn't looking at Enjolras, and it almost works. Probably would, if Enjolras wasn't far past caring that he's staring unapologetically at R.

“Why do you do this, then?” He says, like they'd been having a perfectly normal conversation to lead them to that point.

R quirks a lip and answers like it makes sense, “It's good money.”

“Yeah, but if that was all, the whole world would be full of kidnappers.”

He stretches and Enjolras counts the clicks of his spine to avoid obsessing over it's arch. Five. “Who says it's not?” He doesn't look sad when he faces Enjolras, but he gets that impression anyway. “If the price was right...” he wiggles his hand in a noncommittal way.

Enjolras has avoided thinking about the price on his head, but now he barely bites back asking. He trades it for another ill-advised question. “So you do it for the money. But how did you start?”

Grantaire grins when he'd thought he'd scowl, and teases, “You do know how cliché it would be to tell you my whole sorry backstory right now, yeah?”

“Is cliché really that bad?” He questions, returning the smile without conscious effort.

“I keep trying to convince myself it is.”

“If you have to convince yourself of anything, you're doing it wrong.”

“Is that so?”

“Your convictions should be yours, through and through. If you have to convince yourself of something, it's not a part of the real you.” He takes a breath and continues, “Everyone is good at their core. When we try to convince ourselves to do things, when we try to change the way we naturally think, that's when humanity turns dark. That's when people like Hitler come into power – that's when racism and homophobia take over. Humanity isn't like that – we are  _not like that_ , but we can make ourselves that way.”

R is staring. His eyes are beautiful. “Your speeches are even better in person.” He says, after a long silence. “How long have you been practicing that one?”

“That – that wasn't practiced. That was just what I believe.”

The corners of his mouth curl up, and it is not a happy smile. “'Course.”

* * *

 

“I was a street rat.” Enjolras looks at him and stays quiet. If R is finally opening up, the last thing he's going to do is interrupt him. “Orphaned, or just unwanted. It doesn't matter.” R stretches, and it almost looks like he's completely unaffected by this confession falling from his lips, but his pulse is pounding in his neck. “There were orphanages, of course, but they were hardly better than being out on the streets – so I chose the streets. When I could, at least.”

It's raining outside. The train blurs the droplets into a messy oil painting. “I was lucky, I guess – someone took me in. That doesn't happen much. It was the whole shebang – three square meals a day, a warm bed, a library with all the books I could ever hope to read.” He looks like he wants to smile but it just won't come. “And then it was all torn away. The thing about living on the streets is you get used to starving. Once you have a taste of luxury, that ends. Starvation is your number one enemy, so when I was told I needed to kill for my next meal, I didn't hesitate."

The rain keeps falling. The train keeps shooting across the countryside.

“It didn't really register as 'wrong'. It was just another thing I had to do. I'd killed rats to eat before – this wasn't all that different.” He grins, now, but there's too much teeth. “I didn't eat them, of course, but it was my ticket to the food I'd already grown accustomed to. It never even crossed my mind to refuse.”

Enjolras wants to say something, but he doesn't want R to stop talking. Silence wins.

“Then we started kidnapping – that didn't register as bad, either.” He sighs. “I truly believe morality is learned. You had a nice speech on the inherent good of people – that was lovely, it really was. A truly beautiful thought. But my morality, if it'd ever existed, has only ever been tied to my continued existence. It's hard to think of things in terms of 'good' or 'bad' when my options were 'starving' and 'not-starving'.”

Enjolras doesn't have anything he can say to that. R doesn't seem to expect him to. “There you go. That's how this started. I hope it fulfills your beliefs, however skewed they may be.”

“Do you still work for him? Your... guardian?”

“It was a her. And no, I don't.”

“I do a lot of charity work – I'm sure you know that – but we've never done anything focused on homeless kids before. That's a whole group of at-risk youths that we haven't done a single thing for. I can't even –“

“Slipping under the radar is sort of the thing.”

“But it shouldn't have to be. I'm sure we can allocate some resources for that, god, I don't know how I've never thought of this before. I'll have to talk with Combeferre – he does the finances, you know? But we could partner with this orphanage that Feully works at, and –“

“Angel – you do understand that you aren't going to see them again, right?” Something in his face makes R continue. “This isn't – it's not like jail. You aren't going to serve your time and get out.”

“Oh.” His own voice sounds very far away. “No, I suppose I didn't understand that.”

* * *

 

It's still raining.

It's almost the end of their train ride. Almost the end of everything.

“I killed her.” The rain doesn't stop. It doesn't go silent in deference to that confession. It doesn't do shit, because the universe is eternally ambivalent. “She wasn't a good person. She tortured people, tortured me. She withheld food and used us for her own selfish reasons, and she expected us to just go along with it because it was better than life on the streets.” Grantaire stretches. “She was right, I guess. We went along with it for a very long time.”

“And when you didn't?”

He shrugs. “We just... didn't. There wasn't anything noble about it, really. She'd fed us and clothed us but she'd never loved us, and then she asked us to kill Marius, who never had the means to do any of that, but who'd loved us enough that it hadn't mattered. When we were on the streets, all our meals and beds were shared. She was stupid to try to break that bond.”

“Sounds noble enough.”

“Murder is murder.”

“But you were loyal, in the end.”

“I would've been loyal if I'd followed her orders, as well. Loyalty is a meaningless indicator of worth. It's who you're loyal to that matters.”

* * *

 

R keeps a hand on his back the whole time they're leaving the train. Enjolras has never felt such a peculiar mix of threatened and protected – but all those emotions are taking a backseat to the anxiety.

They get in a van, and it's like every cliché he's ever heard because the windows are tinted, the driver is speaking a language he doesn't know, and his hands are zip-tied behind him. “Sorry, swee- Enjolras.” R's been messing up, calling him pet names again, and he doesn't know if that's good or very very bad. “He requested it.”

That does not make Enjolras feel better.

That does not make Enjolras feel better at all.

He's gentle when he guides Enjolras out of the van, but he still guides Enjolras out of the van, and his hands are still tied, and it might be about time to stop forgiving his kidnappers. It hasn't seemed real, but they're in front of a foreboding mansion (and really, why did they never have  _inviting_  mansions?) and his hands are literally tied and he's never going to see Combeferre or Courfeyrac again.

He looks to R unconsciously.

He's already looking back, beautiful eyes scanning over him. Enjolras has no idea what he sees. “Right.” He says, like he's come to some kind of conclusion.

Enjolras has one sweeping moment of  _R won't do this to me, he'd not like that, we're **friends**_  and then he's being guided up to the mansion, Po and the other woman flanking them.

They're greeted by two men that have the bodyguard look down to a science: suits, sunglasses, earpieces, it's all there. They fall in line with them and as a group, they make their way further into the house.

His legs feel like jelly. He's leaning on R more than he realized, but R's letting him and righting himself feels like a terrible, terrible effort. The arm R has slung around his waist is holding at least half his body weight, easily. He feels like he's floating, a bit. Everything seems a bit far away – blurry around the edges. He probably should be breaking down right now but he can't seem to find the appropriate feelings.

If he started crying right now, would R save him? Would he take him back home? He doesn't think his feelings are one-sided – and they are definitely feelings. Fuck.

He'd caught feelings for his kidnapper. The one that is currently selling him.

He doesn't even have the capabilities to process that right now. The hallway they're in opens up to a dining room, and at the head of the table is everything Enjolras has feared this man would be. He 's fat, with a comb-over that's undeniably hideous, and when he smiles his teeth are black and yellow.

It is, objectively, not a nice smile.

His voice is nasally; the hair on Enjolras' neck is standing straight up. “Your customer service is impressive as always.” He wheezes, “It's just a formality, at this point, but let me examine him, won't you?”

Enjolras dimly registers that 'he' refers to him. Then the man is walking over – more hobbling, he really is  _very_  overweight – and he shrinks into R's side, because there's no where else to go.

“He got attached to you?” The man cackles, “That's fucking precious, this is going to be so much fun!” He squeals. He really fucking squeals.

The zip ties are fucking strong and Enjolras can't move his arms and he can't fucking do anything. He looks up at R to find him looking back down at him; he looks defeated. He looks sad.

Fuck, this is really happening. He's really going to fucking be owned, like a pet. He shrinks further into the warm weight of R; he can feel when the taller man sighs, deep and full bodied. Enjolras is going to live with this man and R isn't doing a single thing about it but  _sigh_.

And then he even breaks eye contact, the absolute fucking bastard. His gaze instead lands squarely on the man who is entirely too close now, and he says in the sweetest voice: “His name is Enjolras.”

* * *

 

The noise registers first. It's a thunderstorm when there has been nothing but blue skies: entirely unexpected, jarring in the extreme. Then the man is falling and everyone is shouting and he's being shoved back none too gently; the floor meets him all wrong.

The rumbling, cracking sounds don't stop, and he realizes that it's gunshots. Just as suddenly as they start, they stop, and the silence is loud for all of two seconds.

“Listen the fuck up.” R yells, “Enjolras is going to be under my protection 24/7 for the rest of his life, so spread that around to all your sleazy friends. Your boss was fucking stupid, and now you get to choose if you'll follow in his footsteps. His accounts are being frozen as we speak; you'll never be paid another cent. So you can shoot at us and die here, or you can get the fuck out and live a nice, long life.” It's very silent, until the first guard starts running. Soon, they're alone with at least three dead bodies and Enjolras has no idea what to feel.

“What the fuck.” Is what he settles on saying, less because he wants to say that, and more because it seems like the right thing to say.

“What can I say.” R says, shrugging like this all means nothing. “You won me over.”

“We should go.” Po breaks in. “Have whatever mush fest you'll have when we're at the hotel room.”

“Right.” R winces visibly when he shifts, and Enjolras isn't the only one to notice.

“You fucking got shot,  **fuckhead**?” The other woman breaks in. The cussing is uncharacteristic for her, but the laying on the floor thing is uncharacteristic for Enjolras, so he has no room to judge.

“I mean, there is a reason we got all decked out in kevlar.”

“You planned to do this?” Enjolras asks – hopes.

“Nah, we just love unplanned murder and fucking over the man who was going to pay for the rest of our lives.” Po hauls him up while snarling at him, but seems to think twice and softens her expression. “Yeah, we planned this. You guys can cry and have filthy sex when we get to the hotel room, but we really should leave. Now.”

The other woman has grabbed R and they all stumble back through the house as a unit. The van is still outside, and they don't even have to say a thing to the driver before he's speeding away.

R slices the zip ties off. Enjolras stares at his newly freed hands and can't think of anything to say besides: “What the actual fuck.” He stares at R. R looks pale but he grins back; it's not a happy grin, but it's not sad either. “So... I'm going home?”

“Got it in one.” He enthuses. The blond woman is taking off his jacket, then the kevlar vest underneath. There's a large splotch that's already turning from red to a deep purple. “You might wanna spring for a bodyguard, though. You're a pretty young activist, and my name won't keep them away forever.”

Enjolras flops his mouth like a fish for a second. “You were lying when you said I was under your protection?”

R looks through his eyelashes at him. It feels less coy and more guarded. “You do realize that would mean hanging around your one-time kidnapper?”

“That would mean hanging around the kidnapper I apparently won over.” He smirks and leans closer. “I couldn't possibly feel safer, because no one could outbid you.”

R grins at him, a real toothy one – and how the fuck is he so attractive – while he gets his ribs dressed. “You've got some real Stockholm syndrome, there.”

“I don't give a fuck.” He's grinning back like a maniac. “I just got the best bodyguard I possibly could've, and...” He loses all the bravado, but presses on. “Maybe more?”

“Of course more.” And R surges towards him, and it's all the fucked up things it's meant to be. “You fucking idiot.”

**Author's Note:**

> TW: He's drugged, tied up, threatened and blindfolded. He's also treated roughly (Gag shoved in his mouth, hair pulled) but it doesn't last very long. Also, he feels very sympathetic to R after a sec. Stockholm syndrome? maybe. None of the threatening or hair pulling is done by R. He's untied in the middle, but I don't know if you should be reading this if someone being tied up against their will bothers you. If you message me, I could maybe cut out the bits with that and send you that version
> 
> Hey guys! Everything is great and awesome. Always.
> 
> I'm going to make this into a series maybe stay tuned  
> Also I was considering adding in some stuff to show that Enjolras is trans (A disagreement about having his binder on? Something of that measure? The old creepy dude misgendering him?) But decided against it in the end. He's trans though, and I might make a vignette of the binder disagreement or something, but honestly I figured he'd probably have gotten top surgery before making himself a figurehead and if old creepy dude is going to be awful in every other way he might as well not be transphobic.
> 
> I always promise porn eventually and never deliver: yell at me in the comments to deliver 
> 
> (or very nicely let me know what you liked/didn't like, I love me some constructive crit. I had a hard time with keeping everything in present tense, lemme know if you find anything contradictory. I love this fandom btw, expect more from me)


End file.
